Filthy Rich
by Simon920
Summary: One of the Wayne Manor employees notices that some things don't quite add up with 'The Family'.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

**Filthy Rich**

**Part One**

He opened the gate as the Bentley rolled through, the butler not even deigning to look at him as he glided past. You'd have thought the old man was the 'master' himself with that look on his face, instead of just another one of the hired hands.

Damn snob.

Maybe that was where Wayne had learned it, learned that damn attitude he had, that 'I'm richer than you are, I'm better than you are and you'll never be in my class no matter what you do'. Or maybe the old man picked it up from the 'Master' since they spent so much time together over the years.

Bastard.

Both of them. Bastards.

But then there was the kid. The poor 'Oliver Twist is my role model' circus rat, too damn smart for his own good brat that kept him from quitting. He was a kid from the wrong side of the tracks who got lucky but didn't make a pain in the ass of himself.

Punk kid, too smart by half.

And you want to know what caught his eye about the kid the most? The smile. The kid was always laughing at something, happy, kidding around, seeing the world as a great big joke and he was the only one who got the punch line. Maybe if a multi-billionaire could adopt everyone then everyone would get it, too.

Like that would ever happen.

Some people got lucky and some people got fired, wasn't that an old expression? Well, if it wasn't, it should be.

"Hey Tom, a couple of friends of mine are coming over in a little while so let them in when they get here, okay?"

"Sure, Dick. No problem."

"Thanks."

It's easy to be nice when everything's handed to you on a silver platter but maybe the kid would be all right even if he was still living in a single wide with his parents, living paycheck to paycheck. Maybe he'd still be okay.

In fact, he probably would, he was raised by the right kind of people, 'had a good family even if they were show business and everyone knows what _they're_ like.

Okay, sure, Wayne was a 'good' employer. The money was pretty fair and he'd been decent when Joan was diagnosed with breast cancer a while back, but it's easy to be generous when all you have to do is pick up the phone and tell your accountant to write a check. He'd even shown up at the church for the funeral, sent flowers and told him not to worry about his job, take as long as he needed and then set up a college fund for Traver. He didn't have to do that. And he'd gotten his picture in the paper for his 'caring'. Caring for the little people, that's all it was. PR, making him look like Santa Claus and the Good Fairy all rolled into one.

'Good Fairy', that was rich. And he was rich. Rich fairy, that what he was and who hadn't heard the rumors? It wasn't like they were hard to miss, were they? Him and the kid? Maybe that was why the kid always had a smile on his face. You never know; that big house was never opened to outsiders unless everything was all spit and polish and the hot and cold running servants had everything under control. The whole house was never opened, though, the family areas were always shut off behind closed doors. Even when they had those big parties five or six times a year for the holidays and those charity things, even then there were parts of the house and the grounds that were closed off from everybody.

The Master liked his privacy and that was the truth. He could be doing anything up there and no one would know anything. No one. And even if they did know, what was anyone going to do about it? He _owned_ Gotham. He could call the shots and everyone knew he had the police in his back pocket.

'Must be nice.

The kid, Dick, he wasn't a bad kid. He never seemed to get into any real trouble and from what he could gather he got good grades and all of that. But, and there was always a 'but', right? The kid didn't do anything for what he had and what he'd landed in. His parents were killed in front of him and yeah, that must have sucked but c'mon—shit happens, right? Now he was set for life but there weren't any free rides, were there? Maybe if he died his kid could end up living in the lap of luxury, to—not that he'd wish that on any kid, let alone his own one.

He was paying for it, for the big suite in the family wing, the private school, the clothes, the bikes, the ski trips and all the rest. One way or another, the kid was paying.

Well, okay maybe he did do something for it all but it wasn't like anyone was going to admit anything. Not in this lifetime.

It was Wayne. He was the one. He was paying all the bills so he was the one expecting reimbursement.

And that butler, he was in cahoots, he followed orders. He had to be in on it, whatever 'it' was.

The two of them doing—things to that kid, that nice kid, the kid who always seemed cheerful and happy.

Except sometimes. Once in a while, maybe two or three times he'd caught the kid with his guard down, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He looked like he was thinking about things, like he was thinking about real bad things and that just wasn't right—not in a kid like that.

Sure kids got upset about stuff but this was different, this was like whatever was bothering him was bad—really bad. The kind of bad that you didn't talk to anyone about, maybe not even a priest or a doctor.

Real bad stuff.

It wasn't right. If someone was doing that to Traver he'd…he'd—he'd stop it. He'd do whatever he had to but he'd do it, protect the kid.

Kids needed protection and adults were supposed to be the ones to give it to the, right?

Even if Dick thought that it was all right, what Wayne was doing, even if he thought that was just the price of living in the big house on the hill in the middle of five hundred acres, he'd see to it that the kid, that Dick got out.

He would. This was important.

He started thinking about it. Every time the kid went in or out the gates, every time Tom was called up to 'the house' to help with this or that he'd think about things. It was true that he never saw anything happen, there wasn't anything he could actually put his finger on but still—it wasn't right. Something up there was just plain 'off' and there was no denying it.

It was true; the kid was a big reason why he stayed at Wayne Manor. And the paycheck.

***

The next day Tom opened the main gate for Dick Grayson. The boy was home from school, riding his mo-ped and obviously loved the freedom as much as any fifteen-year-old. "Hi Tom, how's Traver doing?"

"He's good, Dick, real good. He said that he sees you in school sometimes, 'gets a charge out of it, out of knowing you."

The boy made a dismissive face for a second. "He's a good guy; is he going out for track this year?"

"I'm not sure, he said he was thinking of it, but he's having trouble with math—takes after me that way, I guess. We'll see."

"I could maybe help him if he wants. I had Foley last year and he can be pretty vague in class, a lot of people get confused."

"Thanks, but you're busy…"

"'Not that much. 'You want me to talk to him tomorrow?"

"That would be great Dick, thanks."

"No problem. I think we both have study hall third period, tell him I'm usually in the library finishing my homework, we could meet then."

About a month went by with Dick tactfully and subtly helping Traver; his grades improved and he was allowed to join the track team. Tom figured it was thanks to Dick that he was close to making the honor roll (just missing it by one C in history) and, for the first time ever seemed to actually understand the math he was doing instead of just plugging numbers into the equations. It was a nice change.

In fact, Tom was thinking that everything seemed to be going along pretty damn well for now. His son looked like he was finally back on the right path after some problems the last year or so.

Then Wayne announced that the entire household would be going along that spring to his place in the Bahamas for two weeks; maids, gardeners, even the stiff butler were all going to the private island. It would be a working vacation for most of them and they'd have some duties while they were there, it wouldn't be a complete free for all, but there would be plenty of free time and so everyone could bring someone with them—wife, husband, kid or other. It was their choice so long as it didn't get too ridiculous and all on the Boss's dime. They'd take the big plane down and stay on the man's private island with complete access to the boats and the rest. It was unspoken but understood that the family would have first dibs on the amenities but beyond that, they all had the run of the island.

Informal, relaxed, perfect weather in a tropical paradise and all expenses paid. Man, it didn't get much better than this.

A rich man's perks—not many people get to see the inside of that and that was the truth.

The entourage arrived, boated over to the secluded island, settled into the small enclave of guest cottages with the 'family' in the main house—all wood beams, light colors and sea breezes surrounded by the kind of sea views you see in the travel magazines. Tom brought Traver, of course. Annie, his wife Annie, died in a bad car wreck back when Traver was still in a stroller. "I've never found anyone who could come close to her, never have. Probably never will." That's why now it was just him and the kid—and he was a good kid, too, thank God.

"'You sure you won't be bored without any of your friends around, Trav? I don't want you bothering anybody, 'y'understand?"

"Yeah, sure, Dad. Christ, lighten up, will you? I know how to behave around Wayne, okay? You're not going to get fired or anything."

Anyway, it turned out okay because Trav ended up hanging out with Dick and a couple of friends he'd brought with him. Nice kids, all of them, or so they all seemed.

"They treating you all right?"

"Sure they are, they're pretty nice guys."

"They're not making you feel like the hired help, are they?"

"God, Dad—no, I told you they're okay. Dick was even telling me about how Bruce was talking about taking some of his staff to Aspen with them next winter, he said he'd teach me how to snowboard."

"Great, that's great, but don't you go buggin' them, right? If it happens, it happens."

"Well—yeah. I'm not stupid, you know."

Okay, there was that run in Tom had with the Master; maybe that was why he was nervous about the whole thing. He'd gone up to the kitchen to get some breakfast because the fridge in his own little kitchenette was out of eggs, thinking it was too early for the family to be up but there he was, large as life. The Master was reading that morning's Wall Street Journal. And how the hell did he get it to this island by six-thirty in the damn morning? And why didn't he just use his fancy-dancy computer to read the damn paper?

Whatever, there he was and looking a bit the worse for wear, too. Well, he saw Tom pouring himself a cup of that special blend coffee he had just for him, saw him taking out the bread and the jam which had been imported from God knew where. He didn't say anything, he didn't have to. The look he gave Tom could have frozen ice on an Eskimo's ass.

Tom just avoided him from then on, not all that easy on a tiny island, but he managed to do it.

It was strange, though. Wayne had this rep as an idiot, a lightweight, a real player but here he was reading some serious financial reports (it turned out the WSJ was his light reading). He was keeping a close eye on the kids and still managing to spend every night with some stacked brunette he'd hooked up with and make time for dinner with the local Prime Minister. Something here just flat out didn't jive…sort of like his relationship with Dick. It didn't add up.

"Trav? You make sure that you don't bother Mr. Wayne, right?"

"Yeah, sure."

Then towards the end of the first week was when things started happening, bad things.

The two kids Dick brought with him, Roy and Wally. The kid Wally seemed okay, though Roy was a real smart-ass. The other kid seemed better, more polite and better behaved but neither of them was a real problem. All right, Roy took a jet ski at one in the morning to hook up with some girl he'd met that afternoon but that was just kid stuff. Both Dick and Bruce went after him, brought him back around dawn all safe and sound, if pissed and nothing more was said, at least not that any of the help ever heard about.

The next morning, after the kids slept in but they were down on the main beach by about noon, relaxing, laying around in their bathing suits, swimming and being pretty quiet. Old Bruce must have torn Roy a new one when he was brought back because he was sure as hell keeping a low profile. Tom carried the lunch tray down for the kids, the kids thanked him without getting off their chaises and he went over to Traver, just to see what he was up to.

That was when he saw the other kids, including Dick, get up for their food. He had a fresh bruise on his back and shoulder—a big one, all black and with some major scrapes to add to the picture. He was limping, too, like maybe he'd twisted his knee or something.

"Dick, you okay?"

"Yeah, sure; just slipped last night over on the big island. 'No big deal."

"'Looks painful."

Tom saw Dick and Roy exchange a glance. "I'm fine, don't worry about me. 'Just slipped on a patch of wet dock jumping out of the boat; I'm good."

"'You have it checked out?"

"Alfred took care of it. I'll be fine, don't worry about me, Tom."

"…There's plenty more food if you kids want it."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Filthy Rich  
**

**Part Two**

In fact, Dick's injuries were minor, looked far worse than they were and barely slowed him down. By three that afternoon he was water skiing with the other boys and making plans for a trip to the main island later for a possible dinner and visit to an under age club—or at least that's what they told Bruce. Tom and the boys were putting the skis away when Bruce came down to discuss the evening.

"What underage club?"

"You know, the one by the big dock, the one the cruise ships use."

Bruce took the flyer Dick handed him. "This doesn't say anything about it being underage."

"…Bruce…"

"I'll come with you, make sure it really is for minors."

"Bruce—Jesus, c'mon."

He stared Dick down, his arms crossed over his chest, unblinking. "If you can convince Tom to go with you, I'll consider it."

Dick stopped, Tom was better than Bruce, hands down. "Okay."

"I'd be happy to take them over, Mr. Wayne. 'Be a nice change to see another island."

"If you're sure that you don't mind—take Traver along with you. Thanks, Tom—this is good of you."

Within fifteen minutes it was a done deal. The kids, including Traver would go over to the main island, a three and a half mile boat trip, find dinner at one the dozen or so restaurants within walking distance from the harbor front. After eating they'd probably end up at the club with Tom watching to make sure nothing happened which shouldn't.

"But Master Bruce, do you think Tom is a sufficant chaperon after Roy's misadventure last evening?"

"Tom wants to keep his job; he'll be fine and so will the kids. Besides, Dick and Roy shouldn't have any trouble losing him and doing their work."

"Work?"

"You didn't think that Dick really wanted to hit some club, did you, Alfred?"

"Well, no but I'd certainly not put it past Master Roy."

The afternoon passed pleasantly enough with Dick and the rest mentally preparing themselves for the night ahead, the four youngsters lazing on the beach. "I told you, the girls said that they'd meet us at the currency exchange kiosk at seven."

"And what makes you think they'll be there?"

"Because they know that you're connected with Bruce."

Dick shook his head in disgust. "Jerk."

Later, walking up the path to the main house for showers and a change of clothes before they left, Dick spoke quietly to Roy so no one would overhear. "You sure about the timing?"

"Of course I am."

"What about Wally?"

"He's on the same page we are don't worry about it"

"'You sure he's coming? He doesn't look so good."

Roy looked through the palm trees at Wally still lying on a chaise down on the beach; he hadn't moved in hours and that was about as unusual for him as you could get. "…Sure."

A couple hours later, showered and changed, the boys were ready to go when they made their way to he boathouse. Tom and Traver were waiting, the engine gassed up and everything set. Just as they were about to shove off Wally's hand flew over his mouth, "Ohcrappp…" as he scrambled over the gunwale, followed by the sounds of retching coming from the bushes. Dick and Roy exchanged a look and, without sympathy, Dick climbed out to ask. The others heard an indistinct and halting conversation and then Dick was back.

"He has sun poisoning."

Roy laughed, clearly not feeling his friend's pain. "Idiot."

"Roy…"

"Seriously, he has red hair and freckles, he's frigging Irish and he stays out on a tropical beach for what—eight hours? Idiot." So much for Wally being part of the evening. "So, sucks to be him—let's go, c'mon!"

Dick hesitated a very short moment, they weren't doctors and Alfred was here. Besides, if it was really bad they'd take him to the hospital by boat. A shrug. "Okay."

Tom didn't care, this was just part of his job-babysitting a couple of spoiled teenagers and since he couldn't afford to lose his job then babysitting he'd do. Dick was still all right but these friends of his—Christ. The one who'd just tossed his stomach, he wasn't too bad, if a little hyper but the other kid, Roy…talk about having loser stamped on his forehead.

Attitude, snotty cracks, loud, annoying—you name it. Just so long as Trav didn't get any ideas that this was acceptable then the kid could do whatever he wanted and Wayne could take the blame when he wrecked a car or something.

Obnoxious jackass. He'd thought that Dick would have better taste in friends than that but there was no accounting…

Half an hour later they were tied up at the private marina and headed for the secure, long term parking garage. Wayne, naturally, kept a car there just in case. It wasn't his usual tricked out import, but a top of the line Lexus sedan, loaded—of course it was. Tom drove.

"Okay, where to?" Roy was revved.

"I think Mr. Pennyworth made reservations for us at…"

"Reservations? Alfred's idea of a dinner involves linen napkins and finger bowls—screw that. Tom, you guys have dinner here on Bruce, okay? Come on, Grayson, we're gone…'meet you back at the boat by—say midnight? Okay? Good, later." Dick didn't say anything, just laughed as he and Roy disappeared around a corner on foot.

Tom and Traver looked at one another, unsure what to do now. "Hell, we have to wait, it'll be my ass if I leave them or come back without them. Let's see what Alfred's idea of an acceptable restaurant is, Trav." He was trying to put a good spin on this but—hell's bells.

Tom could kill the two spoiled brats who'd just ditched them. He didn't care for himself because he didn't want to hang out with a couple of teenagers anyway but to leave Traver like that—snotty punks. If he wasn't worried about his job he'd say something but he'd have to settle for everyone getting back to the island in one piece at a reasonable time.

Rich kids could do anything, they learned that fast and it was a lesson Dick seemed to be absorbing too damn well. Maybe that friend of his had some cushy set up like he had with Wayne, but this was just bullshit.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Fine. Hell. He handed the car over to a valet at the door of the ridiculous four star place they had a table. "We have reservations, four for Wayne. I know, two of our party had to cancel at the last minute, sorry." There was, of course, no problem. Bruce Wayne was, after all, Bruce Wayne.

The dinner stretched on for hours, at least two. The food was amazing, even Tom had to admit that but it wasn't stuff any kid would want to spend time on—all heavy French sauces and endless courses and he could see Traver was upset that the other kids had dumped him. That pissed him off—no one messed with his kid.

The rich really were different, they were more obnoxious, even the ones he thought were okay, like Dick, but it turned out that he was just like the rest. The boy had to have seen more than his share of rich jerks as they came through the door of the Manor. You'd have thought he'd know better than that with his crappy background but it looked like Alf's teaching had an effect and Dick was on his way to rich assholedom.

It was a disappointment to Tom who liked the kid, but it was probably a tide no one could really resist. When you have that much money—which equaled power—every door opened and no one had the balls to say no to you for any reason. In a way Tom felt sorry for the kid. He might be riding for a fall, if anyone had the nerve to knock him down a peg or two.

Dinner finally finished, the two strolled along the water front, past all the fancy hotels and shops full of people—locals, drunk college kids on break, middle aged anniversary couples, retired people having a good time. It was bright and noisy and he was getting more irritated at the 'young master' by the minute.

Damn brat. He'd been all right when he was helping Trav, seemed okay when he was home but put him with that jackass and he turned into…yeah, he turned into just another rich jerk.

By ten he and Trav were both getting tired but had to wait around until the two others were back from wherever the hell they'd taken off to. There was no choice because there would be hell to pay of he had the stupidity to go back without one of them, let alone leaving them both here.

"C'mon, Trav, we'll wait back by the boat. Maybe they'll be back early."

"'Sure they will."

Crap.

Ten-thirty.

Sure, Dick had been good about helping Trav but this was flatout fucking rude. It had been a long day, tomorrow was going to be long, too and some of them had an actual job they had to think about.

Eleven.

It was starting to get a little cool sitting here on the damn dock, it being the tropics nonwithstanding. Even if they showed up now it would be another hour, at least, before they could reasonably expect to be crawling into bed. Trav was yawning and so was Tom. He shook his head—he had half a mind to say something to Master Bruce and that was the damn truth.

Eleven fifteen.

He heard something big out in the water, like maybe a porpoise or a whale or something like that. It wasn't close enough to see in the dark but he could hear it out there swimming back and forth, sometimes splashing and sometimes just making watery swimming sounds. Hell—anything that big could swamp the boat they had. Maybe it would be better if they stayed here for the night and went back in the morning.

Oh yeah, the Master would love that. Sure he would.

Quarter of eleven.

The crowds were thinning out as the tourists went back to their hotels. The shops were closed down and even the restaurants were serving their last meals. The bars were, however, going strong with no signs of slowing down.

Nothing. Not a sound other than the damn waves lapping. No party noises aside from some bash maybe a mile down the beach at one of the big hotels and a few drunks stumbling along, laughing at Christ knew what. Tom stood up, his ass was getting sore from sitting on that damn piling for so long.

Midnight.

Steps on the other end of the dock, more than one person coming closer, closer and then under the lights—no, wrong couple. Just a couple of college kids looking for someplace to be alone and taking a wrong turn from their hotel—dumbasses. The girl was a looker, though but still, dumbasses. Too many damn drunks on this island.

Twenty after Twelve.

Nothing. No one. Tom shifted his position again. Traver was in the boat just watching the reflections on the water and close to nodding off.

Ten to one.

Footsteps. This time it was actually the kids, finally and about damn time. "Where the hell were you?"

Dick and Roy exchanged a smirking look. "We had dinner over by the Hilton and then we met these girls, they said they were from Ohio State and we went swimming. Then we took them back to their place at the Marriot. We saw part of a set by Keith Urban—they were big fans—then we went for a walk and, c'mon, Tom—you know how it is."

"You two waited in the boat the whole time? What the hell did you do that for? We told you we'd be back around midnight." Roy put his hand on Dick's shoulder, his fingers barely brushing the bruises on his friend's neck. "You made me proud, junior."

"'I had a good teacher."

"Damn right you did."

That was more than enough for Tom. "Get in the boat. It's late and you were supposed to be back almost an hour ago."

"Jesus, Tom, lighten up will you? It's _vacation_." But the kids got into the speedboat, Dick offering to drive since he knew the channel better in the dark. Forty minutes and they were tying up back in Bruce's boathouse. "'Sorry you had to wait, Tom—really. Sorry. Get some sleep."

The parties separated to their various accommodations without another word but plenty of bad feelings.

Dick and Roy walked into the main house, Bruce waiting for them. Smiles turned serious as they sat at the dining room table for what looked like a business meeting. "You both all right?"

"Fine; you?"

"Yes. Someone tipped off the importers; they got wind of a trap. We'll have to keep an eye on them and go back, probably sometime tomorrow."

"What about Garth, did he report in?"

"He saw a float plane jettison some bundles of cocaine which have been recovered but the plane itself was already airborne and he was unable to stop it but they're tracking it—looks like it's headed for the Bahamas. You boys will be working again tomorrow."

"No problem."

"'Wally all right?"

"He should be good to go by tomorrow. Alfred is taking care of him.

"'Tom suspect anything?"

"'Just that we're self-centered jackasses."

"Good."

"Dick—I need you to help me in the morning to arrange a set up for later. Roy, give Tom some story about him being grounded or something, will you?"

"You got it."

The next day Dick didn't make an appearance on the beach until after lunch, he was quiet and subdued. Tom wondered just what the Master had done to him.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

"What happened to your neck?"

"'Lucky hit, it's all right."

Bruce looked again at the bruising, it could have been a lot worse; Dick's neck could have been broken if the angle had been different. "Tom mentioned something about you and Roy hooking up with a couple of girls from, I think he said it was Ohio State."

"It was the best we could do at short notice, I'm sure he bought it."

Bruce ignored Roy's smirk and got down to business. "You're supposed to be grounded for keeping Tom up later than he expected and you"—he looked at Roy—"Would do well to pretend to be a bit chastised for being the cause of Dick's punishment."

"You got it. I spoke with Garth when we got back—did you know Atlantean cel phones receive underwater? I think we should get some, just in case. Anyway, they say they can disable the seaplane so the bust should be simple enough. They also have the harbor covered and the private marinas—should be a cake walk."

"Timing?"

"'Set to go around nine PM."

"Good. The local police will be notified as soon as we finish our part and will take the dealers into custody."

So everything was in place. "I suggest you act like you're a couple of spoiled kids on vacation for the rest of the day. Dick, you may want to try to sneak out so I can ground you for the evening."

"…So I can sneak out with Roy and Wally and get in more trouble in the morning?"

"That's the plan."

"Hey Bruce, I was wondering something; how come we brought everyone down here with us? Why didn't we just come in, do our thing and get our under the radar quick and dirty? And why did you send Tom along last night? That was a pain in the ass."

"I promised the staff that they'd come down the next time we came to the island and enough people knew where we were going—opening the house and making sure the boats were in good shape. And, with everyone here, it would have hit the tabloids if I'd let you and Roy go off last night on your own at your ages." He looked a little chagrinned at being backed into a corner because he didn't keep his mouth shut.

Dick kept a straight face, funny though it was and despite the fact that Tom and Traver being here and hanging with them was causing complications. "We can deal with it."

***

Tom couldn't believe it, the whole thing, the whole trip was getting out of hand and the best the Master could do was tell Dick that he couldn't leave the island today—_that_ was what constituted 'grounded' in Wayne's world.

He'd seen the other two boys, Roy and Wally, down on the main beach by the cove, Wally staying in the shade and then, about half an hour ago, he looked and saw Dick laying down there with them.

Incredible.

"I thought you were supposed to stay in the house or your room or something today."

He looked completely unimpressed. "Alfred thought I should stay inside but Bruce thought that was a bit harsh so I'm just supposed to keep away from the boats till tomorrow or something."

Roy, the smart-ass, started laughing. "You know what the real problem is; he's jealous that you got some action and he didn't. Bruce has a rep to think about, y'know."

"Shut up, Roy."

"Temper, temper. C'mon Dick, this is funny, admit it."

"It wasn't funny last night when I walked in and he was sitting there waiting. I thought he was going to…" He stopped short with a sideways glance at Tom, and both Dick and Roy's expressions switched from light-hearted to dead serious in a nano-second.

"Did he?" Roy's voice was low, concerned sounding and Tom's instincts kicked in full force, though Dick just gave a single headshake. Whatever they were afraid of evidently didn't happen. Bruce was going to—what? What was he going to do to the kid? Why was he so scared, what was it he was so afraid of and why didn't he get help if there was a problem? A kid like Dick would have access to plenty of resources, wouldn't he?

"Dick—you need anything? 'You all right?"

Still subdued. "Yeah, I'm good. Thanks, Tom, don't worry about me."

Tom noticed that both Roy and Wally were watching and not happy about what they were seeing, concerned about their friend.

"Are we all supposed to have dinner with him?" Wally was still over under the shade of a palm.

"Yeah, Alfred went over to get whatever's fresh at the farmer's market a while ago."

The boys fell silent, seemingly wondering how they were either going to get out of a family dinner or how they were going to handle it if they were stuck.

"Dick, you need anything—anything at all, you just let me know, okay?"

"Sure, thanks, Tom."

Back in his own small cottage later, his own hamburger eaten over with the rest of the staff after a cookout, Tom sat in the hammock, swaying gently and wishing he could help the kid. Dick; he liked the boy, respected him most of the time and thought he'd been through more than enough and had earned some, some…some what? Some freedom from the kind of bullshit Bruce seemed to be dumping on him. It wasn't right. He was just a kid, a smart kid, a resourceful kid, a kid who was probably ten times the equal of a scum like Wayne but still—he was just a kid.

Maybe one of those friends of his could help him out somehow, give him a place to stay where he'd be safe.

The main house, that was part of the problem, a big part probably.

Back in Gotham—okay, in Brixton—he knew that the 'family' both had bedroom suites in the same wing, on the same floor and sharing the same hallway. Here the two master bedrooms were right next to one another with the guestrooms on the other side of the house, across the living room. Alfred had his own room somewhere behind the kitchen so whatever happened, happened away from any prying eyes.

Jesus, that poor kid. Even when he was on a vacation he was under the microscope. Well, right now there wasn't much he could do but when they got home in another ten days or so, _then_ he could maybe do something to help the poor kid. He'd do it, he'd keep his eyes opened and see what there was to see, find out for real what was going on and then he'd, he'd…he'd do something about it. Even Bruce Wayne was human and, dammit, he'd make sure he had to follow the same rules that everyone else was supposed to.

He would.

Poor little rich kid.

***

"Right, Wally, you get over to the main island, see what's happening on the landing strip we located and then report back in. Garth is watching the cove for the drop off and Dick and Roy will be there to make any arrests. Questions?"

"Where will you be?"

"I'll be having dinner with Justin Timberlake and Madonna over at Richard Branson's place."

Dick broke out in that big grin. "Breaking a sweat for truth and justice, Bruce?"

"I do what little I can, thank you."

"May I ask why, exactly, we had to do the bust like this? I mean, seriously, the Titans could have flown in and handled it ourselves. It's not like we've never arrested drug dealers and importers so why the dog and pony show?"

Bruce sat back in his chair and regarded the boys. "Because you were sloppy on the last one and so the Justice League wants to make sure you know what you're doing."

The silence was complete and stunned, lasting almost a full two minutes. Neither Roy nor Wally had the nerve to question Batman but Robin had no compunctions, he knew the man too well and for two long for that. "Excuse me?"

"Three weeks ago the Titans bobbled Harvey Dent's arrest and barely managed to contain him and his underlings. We want to make sure that was just a fluke." Bruce was completely composed and calm, he could have been talking about the weather.

"And he's sitting in Arkham as we speak."

"Yes, but it was a close thing." He stood up, unruffled by the boy's reaction. "No other questions? Good; don't mess this up tonight."

Down on the beach an hour later Tom overheard the three boys, Traver staying away after last night's problems and attitudes. He was somewhere reading a book, or so he said.

"…I can't believe he gave you that bullshit after everything we've done for him and the rest…"

"…You know how he is, all he ever thinks about is performance…"

"…Yeah, better, faster, more. It's not like we're amateurs at this, f'chrissake…"

"…Maybe if any of us had time we could, you know, we could sharpen some skills…"

"…Are you serious? More practice? Cripes, we're as good as it gets, no matter what he and his hot-shit friends think. Like any of _them_ could do what we do. They've all got like _decades_ on us, arrogant jerks…"

"…And it's not like any of us are getting paid for this. Room and board, that's it, and we're lucky to get that. We should walk or unionize or something. Sometimes I think they all wrote a list of requirements; number one, orphan so there'd be no parents nosing around, number two, 'special abilities'…"

"…Lighten up, Roy. You know how he is; he doesn't believe in compliments. He knows how lucky all those guys are to have us around to do their bidding…"

"…Yeah, well, wait till we're their age—we'll whip their butts…"

Tom walked away shaking his head. Sure, they could have been talking about almost anything but it sounded like they were talking about…things. Disgusting things. Things that he'd never in a million years let Trav do or even consider.

Disgusting.

And these kids were only what, fifteen? Wayne should be locked up; he should be in a damn jail cell. That's where he should be.

***

Tom was coming back from the boathouse when he ran into Dick and his friends. "What have you three got in mind?"

"We're going over to the main island, hang out and see what's going on."

"Dick, you know you're supposed to stay here. Mr. Wayne will be pretty mad if he finds out you defied him and took off."

Roy opened the door and pulled the key off the hook. "Yes, Richard, you're guardian will be mad as a wet hen, we wouldn't want that."

"Roy knock it off and stop being obnoxious. Tom, Dick's all right, we're just going out for a couple of hours."

Besides, Bruce is already over there having dinner with someone. We'll be back before he is, I promise." Dick untied the boat and climbed in with his friends as they pushed off. "Don't worry about us, Tom, we'll be fine. I swear and you won't get into any trouble or anything—honest."

"Dick—get back here—Dick!" But the motor started and they couldn't hear over the engine, even if they'd wanted to.

"Dammit—there's gonna be hell to pay for this. That kid has no idea. None."

***

In fact the Titans were so angry by Batman's attitude and implied insults that they wouldn't have turned back no matter what Tom, or anyone else, said to them. Besides, they had work to do, important work, even if no one knew about it except them and the local cops.

"Wally, you see the plane?"

"Yeah, it's being unloaded and the stuff is being transferred to a mini-van. Dark blue. They were talking about heading down to 'the beach' so let Garth know."

Robin and Speedy were already in position, waiting for the drugs to arrive. They'd spoken to Garth and he was tracking the speedboat that would arrive in the cove in five minutes.

This was a walk in the park. Roy turned to Robin and whispered. They could hear the van pulling in. "Why do you think Batman was so insistent that we not screw this up? My grandmother could make this bust."

"He's testing us, that's all. He doesn't think that we're going to mess up, he just wants to make sure that we don't."

"God, how can you stand working with him?"

"How can you stand working with Green Arrow?"

"Bite me."

"Let's go."

Garth intercepted the speedboat and had the crew tied up as he beached the boat. It had taken him less tan two minutes and, though he would never say anything, he was a little annoyed that he'd been brought all the way to the Caribbean for something so minor.

Wally had disabled the plane, making sure it wouldn't be moved somewhere to avoid it being used as evidence then joined the other two boys waiting on the beach.

There were three drug runners and three Titans; it was no contest, they were cuffed and ready for transport. The drugs wrapped up and sitting in the local police chief's desk in less than an hour, the criminals in a holding cell.

The Titans asked for no help, needed no backup and had no problems at all.

Changed into street clothes they decided to celebrate just a little, crashing a pig roast hosted by one of the hotels for it's guests.

"Hey, you kids, you mid showing me your wrist tags?" Ah hell, most of the hotels made the guests wear the stupid things so they could be identified and, of course, they had none.

"Sorry, we'll go."

"I think you need to come with me, where are you boys staying?"

Shit. "We're staying on Wayne Cay."

"Sure you are. C'mon, where are you staying, the Treasure Cove?" It was next door.

Roy, being Roy, spoke up, completely unfazed. "This is Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne's ward and we're his friends. We're staying with Bruce on his island; you want to call him?"

"If you don't mind?"

"Not at all."

Dick sighed, this was so unnecessary. "He's having dinner here on the island so he won't be there."

"Do you happen to know where he's dining?"

"At Richard Branson's. I think I have the number." Dick looked through his pocket. "Sorry."

The police chief, who'd been called in, much to his irritation, smiled. "I have Mr. Branson's number." He dialed, spoke for about two minutes and then hung up. "It seems that you're correct and that Mr. Wayne is, indeed, just finishing his desert and will be here shortly. He seemed unhappy."

The boys exchanged looks again. They'd have to play along. Sure enough, Bruce was ushered into the chief's office about twenty minutes later, Richard Branson with him. "I see you've been having a little too much fun this evening, Dick; do I need to remind you that you're supposed to e grounded?"

Dick just shrugged; there was nothing to say, at least as far as the outsiders were concerned. A spoiled rich kid might, maybe, face some consequences for something. It was a good feeling.

"I'll take you back to the island. Richard, I apologize again for disrupting dinner—it was excellent, as always and we'll set for golf Tuesday at ten-thirty."

"Really, Bruce, go easy on them. They're on vacation, after all."

"I think vacation is over."

Back on the island, with Bruce briefed in the boat on the way back and him letting them know he was satisfied with their evening's work, they pretended to skulk guiltily back to their rooms.

Tom, watching them slink in, shook his head. The poor kid—he was in for a hell of a night and not in a good way.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

Two weeks later vacation was over, everyone was back home and life, such as it were, was back to normal.

The last days down on the island seemed all right on the surface but Tom saw the tension in the kids and the dirty looks the Master kept throwing at Dick. It sucked for the kid and it was all he could do to pretend that nothing was wrong when it plainly was.

Bruce Wayne, what a bastard. Or prick. That worked, too. Take your pick.

Jesus, as far as Tom could see, Dick was about as decent a kid as you could find but all old Bruce cared about was the impression he made on people he decided were worthy, rich snobs like himself—rich, famous and with their heads so far up their…well, you know.

It was the last full day there that really burned, though. Tom was down in the boathouse, quietly doing some painting inside and heard the three boys, Dick and his two friends come down and sit on the chairs out on the attached dock.

"You okay, man?" It sounded like the redhead, Roy, the smart ass and he sounded serious for once.

"…Yeah, sure."

"C'mon, Dick—what happened? He on your case again?"

Again? Still. It's just…you know how he is. He expects me to be perfect and won't settle for anything less and it's, you know, it's…"

"Impossible? Well, yeah. You bust your butt for him and you know it, we all know it. Ollie was telling me that even Clark was saying something about how he couldn't believe how hard you work and man, if _he_ says it then—take it for what it's worth, okay?" There was a silence, then, "He say something about the other night?"

"Not in so many words, he doesn't do that, but it was pretty obvious he thought we could have done better."

There was a choking sound of disbelief. "What an asshole."

"Roy, knock it off."

"Maybe I could ask Barry to talk to him, I know he thinks he should lighten up most of the time. I mean, I know that's his thing, but it's starting to wear thin, even for those guys."

"Jesus, Wally—are you nuts? Do you have any idea what would happen if he thought we were talking about this? Don't even go there, okay?" Dick's voice sounded scared.

"…Okay, but man—you gotta have a talk with him or something or you're gonna break. I'm telling you, Dick, seriously."

"I'm all right, c'mon, you know me."

"Yeah, which is why I know you won't do it—you always say that, he messes you over and you never do anything."

Dick's tension level went up a few notches. "Well hell—it's not like I don't owe him, y'know? If he hadn't taken me in I'd…"

That was it, Roy sounded pissed. "Yeah, I've heard this song before—if he hadn't taken you in you'd be a poor waif stumbling your way through the foster care system. Well you know what? That's bullshit. If he hadn't taken you in then someone else would have and you'd be fine. Don't give me that look, junior—you're still _you_ and you're stronger and smarter than any three people I know and you know it as well as I do. You may not believe it, but you damn well know it so change the record and find yourself a new excuse."

"Roy, stop." Wally sounded like he was trying to be the peacemaker, the voice of reason. "Lay off. Dick knows he can leave any time he wants and he knows he has places to go if he has to but it's not going to come to that because we all know that beneath his garbage, Bruce still loves him and that won't change."

"Cue the violins."

"Roy, shut up."

There was a sudden sound of a deck chair creaking and then steps—quick, angry steps, leaving the dock. After a moment Wally quietly ended the conversation. "You know, he's right."

"I know, but it's not that simple. He's still…you know."

"Yeah."

So they were back home and things were as normal as they ever were at the Manor. There was some big charity dinner scheduled for next week, the Master had his usual parade of stacked bimbos of the month traipsing through and Dick still had the smile on his face, the one that made everyone think that everything was fine.

He also had new bruises just about every week and Tom started making a point of writing down the things he saw and heard. He also started asking Traver if he noticed anything at school, things like Dick being absent more than a normal kid would be, skipping gym so he wouldn't have to change his clothes in the locker room; that kind of thing.

"Cripes, dad—he's like two years ahead of me. It's not like we're in the same classes or anything."

"I know, just keep your eyes opened, okay"

"Yeah, whatever."

But nothing really surfaced that he could pin anything concrete on. And he was watching, oh man, was he watching.

*

"Hey Bruce, is something going on with Tom?"

"Hmmm?"

"It's like he's obsessed with me or something. He keeps staring at me, trying to start conversations. It's starting to get weird."

Bruce looked at Dick over his coffee cup. "Has he actually done anything?"

"Like what, touching me or asking me out to dinner or something? No, but it's still getting a little creepy."

"'You think he may be working up to a blackmail attempt or something along those lines?"

"I don't know, he doesn't seem the type and he was pretty grateful when I helped Traver with his homework but, I don't know, it's almost paternal, like he's worried about me or something."

"If you want I could transfer him over to Wayne Enterprises or one of the other houses if he's making you uncomfortable."

Dick shook his head. "Then Trav would have to transfer schools. Nah, it's probably nothing, forget it."

"If you're sure…"

"Yeah, it's nothing. 'Probably just my imagination."

"The word is 'yes', master Dick. 'Yes.'"

"Yes, Alfred."

"Thank you."

Bruce didn't say anything, but he'd see what he could find out. Dick wasn't prone to flights of fancy when it came to this kind of thing and he had a good sense of character. Maybe Tom was interested in Dick beyond as just the boss's son. If that was the case, he might have to fire the man and he'd really rather not.

***

"But the thing is that I suspect but can't prove anything."

"I understand. In that case the best I can suggest is that you keep watching, continue what you're doing, write everything down you think is suspicious and then just…see."

"…Okay."

"Have you tried just sitting the boy down and talking with him? It may be that he's simply afraid to turn to the authorities because of the high profile people involved. Maybe he'd open up to a sympatheltic ear."

Tom shook his head. "I kind of doubt it. He's pretty tied up in the whole thing, 'feels grateful for being 'rescued' from juvie when he was a kid. I don't think he'll admit anything to anyone."

The other man sighed. "Stockholm Syndrome. It's not uncommon in these cases."

"Yeah, but…"

"And keep in mind that if it comes to it, you'll be up against Wayne and his entire legal staff. You can't just suspect, you have to get solid proof and nothing half-way or he'll eat you alive."

"Yeah and if I don't, then he'll eat the boy alive."

"Tom, I'm just telling you to make sure you know what you're doing."

"I know and I appreciate it." He turned to leave. "Thank you, Reverend."

From then on Tom redoubled his watch on Dick, made a note of when the kid wet to school and when he got home. He wrote down every friend who came to see him and every time he went to see a friend and there weren't all that many. It seemed like the Master had him on a pretty short leash and there was the time Trav invited him to a birthday dinner.

"Thanks. Sounds like fun but Bruce has some stuff he wants me to do. Happy Birthday, though."

Sure, Wayne could have had something going on or maybe he just didn't want the kid out from under his thumb—and whatever else he had the kid under.

It was so damn wrong, what that rich bastard was doing to the kid. Making him do—things. Who knew what he used to get Dick to agree to…maybe the old man, Alfred knew what the real score was but he'd been working for 'the family' since Christ knew when. He'd raised the Master, for the love of Christ and so maybe that was where old Bruce got his own initiation into the things they were doing up there.

Jesus.

But the thing Tom didn't get, didn't understand was where the hell Child Protective Services was in all of this. Weren't they supposed to keep a watch on the kids? Didn't they stop in for visits, expected or otherwise? That was supposed to keep up until Dick wasn't a minor anymore and that was at least another year, wasn't it?

Hell, maybe Bruce paid them off, too. It's not like he couldn't afford to buy anything and anyone he wanted to, right?

'Richest Man in the World'. Wasn't that what they papers and magazines always called him? Okay, maybe he wasn't actually number one, but he was still pretty damn rich, number seven if you wanted to know his exact position. Seven point eight Billion dollars, that's what Forbes said he was worth last year. Okay, there's been a downturn in the world economy but somehow he didn't think the Master was really hurting too badly.

And, Jesus—who the hell needed almost eight billion dollars?

And, according to most reports, Dick was the only real heir in case something happened. Incredible. Not that money would make up for the things the Master put the kid through, the things he made him do, the things that were done to him.

Yeah, the rich really were different.

So, the question now became what he was going to do about it. He'd suspected for a couple of years. All he needed was proof, that was what the Reverend said and he was right, No one would listen to him if he didn't have something to back up what he thought and it stood to reason that anyone Bruce got a hold of would be bought off. No one could resist that kind of money being thrown at them It cost Michael Jackson—what was it?—twenty million to keep that kid he was supposed to be diddling quiet.

That was chump change to Wayne.

He needed something, he needed something so obvious, and so uncontrovertible that no one would question it. He'd get it. He wanted to protect the kid. He just wanted him to have a shot at some kind of a normal life. Bo one should have to endure what Wayne was putting him through week after week, year after year.

He might have to bide his time but he could. He wouldn't quit, he'd stay on the job so he could watch and be ready when someone slipped and handed him what he needed to put the perv away.

Behind bars, that's where he belonged.

He'd do it. He could wait.

Bastard.

Perverted bastard.

Three months later he saw his chance.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

Today I saw that Dick had his hair over his forehead and he never does—always combs it out of his eyes. He leaned over to pick up a book he'd dropped and I saw his forehead. It was fresh and looks like it was still bleeding and had maybe a dozen stitches in it, right in his left eyebrow so you wouldn't see them too well unless you looked—the thread blended in with his dark hair. I asked him what happened and he sort of tried to bluff but then finally said he walked into a door.

"You don't look clumsy to me, how'd something like that happen?"

"I got up in the middle of the night, 'still half asleep and forgot that the door wasn't opened. It's okay."

Walked into a door my ass but he wouldn't talk and just went into the house. The kid looked upset, too, like he was afraid, scared and was worried someone would call bullshit on his lame story.

That was just the problem I could see—I'm almost afraid to ask what might be under his shirt or something.

Wayne is a strong man, big and I know he works out. A kid like Dick, even a kid like Dick wouldn't stand a chance against him if he were pissed. He's got to go over two hundred pounds and Dick, he's strong, too but he's still fifteen years old, hasn't filled in yet. It's not even close, the kid would be like a fish on a line—he could fight but he was still hooked.

Jesus—that's the other thing; everyone thinks Bruce is this pleasant, sort of dim nice guy. No one knows that he—what he's doing to Dick and how long it's been going on. Damn pervert.

I know I don't have any evidence, especially if Dick won't say anything but—crap—I can't just walk away.

And that's another thing. Yesterday Trav came home from school and said that Dick had talked to him during that study hall they both have during school. He said that Dick wants me to leave him alone. Evidently Dick has noticed that I'm watching him and he doesn't like it, makes him uneasy or something, doesn't like knowing that someone has him under scrutiny.

Hell—Trav looked upset about that, about the idea that I might be worried about the kid and that it could (though probably wouldn't) make me lose my job.

"Dad—shit, c'mon, I _like_ Dick, lay off him, will you? He's been really nice to me and he's a good guy, If he's okay with living up there then that should be good enough for you, okay?"

"Trav, you don't understand…"

"Just leave him alone, will you? You don't even know for sure that anything is going on that shouldn't be—I mean, do you really think that someone as smart as dick would just take it? He wouldn't, he'd leave or call his friends or something. He has plenty of things he could do if there was a problem. Cripes, aren't they friends with like the police commissioner? Lighten up on the poor guy."

"You don't understand; I have to do what I think's right."

"Yeah, good for you but if Dick says anything to Bruce then your ass will be in a sling and then we'll both be screwed so lay off."

"He had stitches and his excuse is ridiculous."

"So what? It's none of your damn business—just back off. I mean it, leave him alone. He's smart and he's a lot tougher than you think he is so let him deal with whatever he's dealing with on his own before you get fired."

***

A week or so later Tom saw a chance to maybe settle this mess. Dick was out just taking a walk through the miles of paths on the estate, something he did now and then. The unstated but understood rules were that the staff was supposed to make themselves scarce when a member of 'the family' was around but this time—what the hell. He followed to see where the kid was headed then took a shortcut and intercepted him on the shore of the small lake.

"Dick?" If the boy was startled he hid it well and simply nodded an acknowledgement. "I was wondering, do you have a minute?"

Hesitation. "What did you want to talk about?" Tom liked that, no beating around the bush, no pretending like he didn't know what was going on.

"Is everything all right?"

Dick just looked at him with this appraising attitude, like he was wondering what Tom's agenda was in this. He had this sudden hard look about him this sort of 'whatever it is you think you know, whatever you think you're going to find out isn't happening and it's none of your damn business so fuck off'. Then the old man, Alfred's manners snapped back into place, his expression softened; it was watching a switch click on, surprising Tom, the kid was good. "Everything's fine, why do you ask?"

"I was worried about those stitches, is that healed now?"

"Oh, yeah. They were removed a couple of days ago, it's fine, no problem. Thanks for asking." He shifted his weight, ready to walk away.

"Does that happen often, you needing stitches?"

He stopped and turned back, that hard look back on his face, even his voice changed, demanded respect and full attention. "Excuse me?"

Jesus, the kid's eyes were really an amazing color, Tom hadn't ever seen eyes that blue but maybe they were contacts or something. "'Getting hurt, does that happen a lot?"

Hands on his hips, he faced Tom dead on from about six feet away. "What are you asking?"

Fine, say it, just frigging say it and let the chips fall where they may. "I was wondering what really happened, who did that to you. I know it's not any of my business but this isn't the first time you've had these injuries—I was getting worried that maybe someone was, you know, maybe someone was responsible."

"Someone like Bruce or maybe Alfred?" He didn't seem surprised and probably knew exactly what Tom thought. "No. No one is beating me or raping me or doing anything else to me that they shouldn't. I do gymnastics—you know that. I get hurt sometimes; you want to see my hands?" He held them out, palms up. They were a mass of calluses, scars and healing skin splits. "Gymnastics, it's dangerous at the level I work, sometimes I get hurt. Any other questions?"

"That's the answer?" As good as an answer as he was going to get from the kid, that was apparent. One last try, "If anything does happen, if someone ever, I'm close by—you know what I'm saying. Call me. Any time, day or night. Call me, okay?"

Dick nodded. "Gymnastics, but thanks for asking." He was done with the conversation, nodded, "Excuse me."

Tom watched the boy disappear around the path and into the woods.

***

"That's what he said, Reverend Jack, that he hurts himself doing gymnastics."

"Maybe he does, didn't you say he's pretty good? That's not an easy sport, takes a lot out of you. He could be telling the truth." Tom was like a dog with a bone about this and wasn't buying the boy's explanation.

"All the time? It's that bastard Wayne, I'm sure of it but I can't get any proof."

"But the boy—Dick?—he's adopted, right? So they have visits from the agency or whatever. How could they be hiding abuse for years?"

"Because Wayne has more money than he knows what to do with, that's why. A million or two is pocket change to him, don't you get it?"

"Well, yes, but clearly the boy has ample chances to escape or talk to someone who would help. If the school had the slightest suspicion they're forced, by law, to report to the authorities. Nothing has ever been proven regarding anything of that sort going on."

"Reverend…"

"Tom, seriously, I know. Everyone has heard the rumors but because they're so high profile they've been investigated and nothing has ever come of any of them."

The whole thing frustrated Tom; even his minister wasn't going to help. "Where's there's smoke there's fire, that's all I'm saying."

Later Reverend Jack considered. The allegations from Tom were serious if true, of course, but it seemed unlikely. For starters what he'd told Tom was true, an adopted child is under the extended care of the state until they're no longer minors. On top of that, even if Wayne was bribing the powers that be, someone would talk—there was just too much money to be made from this kind of exposé. And on top of that, Wayne was a known player with every starlet and model who crossed his path. He may be a lot of things, but he certainly seemed to be straight.

But he also knew that Tom wasn't a stupid man and was genuinely worried about the Grayson child. Maybe he could make a couple of phone calls to the Child Welfare Agency and see if there had been any kind of complaint filed or if any action had ever been taken on behalf of the boy.

It was little enough to do and couldn't hurt.

***

Maybe Reverend Jack was right. Maybe Dick was telling the truth, maybe his injuries were just from his gymnastics and skiing and the rest of it. It also made sense, if you just looked at the surface, that Wayne was really as he presented himself, a dumb but basically decent man who liked to date beautiful women, take them to his bed for a week or a month and then move on to the next. Tom could even, almost, believe that he'd taken Dick in, adopted him—made him his ward or whatever—because he felt sorry for the kid and could relate after his own parent's murders.

It made sense, it all added up and no one had any reason to doubt it. Sure there were the rumors about why a grown man, a single grown man would take in a young boy but rumors were rumors and no one _really_ knew what was going on up there.

Tom turned the TV on and opened a beer.

He still had some questions but, whatever. He'd keep his eyes opened and if he really saw something then he'd do something but until then, well…

He'd done everything he could for months, tried to help the boy, reached out to him, done everything he could think of and still come up empty.

He drained half the bottle.

The kicker had been last night when Traver had stormed out after another argument; they'd been having them more often the last few months and Tom wished he could figure out a way to get through to the kid. Trav's parting shot? He'd been half out the kitchen door when he threw it back at his father; "Just once it would be nice of you gave _half_ as much thought to me as you do to friggin' Dick Grayson." The screen door slamming on the last word.

He'd let things take their course and keep his mouth shut unless something happened to make him change his mind.

***

It was close to midnight, summer. It was a hot night, one of those nights when even a sheet was too much and you couldn't get comfortable, couldn't sleep unless you either had A/C or a fan going and you prayed for a stray breeze without luck of one finding you. Midnight and it was still almost ninety degrees and humid, like you were in a steamy jungle and could feel the sweat dripping while you tried to find a cool part of the bed.

A whispered voice into a small microphone. "Robin, watch the back exit, I think they're going to try to escape there."

"On it."

They were on the roof of the Gotham Museum of Art with a burglary in progress down in the Seventeenth Century European Paintings galleries and the word was that the Rembrandts were targeted. Much to well known to resell on any kind of open market, they were destined for a private collector and would be lost for decades, if not longer, if the thieves weren't stopped.

"They're loading paintings into that van, on my way"

"No, wait till I get there—Robin!"

Batman got to the edge of the building just in time to see Robin jump, swing down, land a few feet from the getaway vehicle beside the dumpsters. He took down three of the men while the fourth started the engine and pulled away. It took seconds, Batman launched his own jumpline and felt his feet on the asphalt just as Robin shot off another batarang/line to tangle in the rear wheels and slice through the tires.

Somehow the throw was slightly off, the line ended up tangled in the wheel or axle and instead of slicing through the heavy rubber the batarang ended up cutting it's own line, it's momentum causing it to kick back, flying wild.

Batman shot his own line to disable the van, the shredded tire pulling it to a screeching out of control stop, resting crashed against the side of the building, the driver stunned and quickly under control.

"GPD—back up needed at Gotham Art Museum, suspects down and ready for transport. Batman out."

"10-4"

"Robin?"

"Over here."

Batman turned, the night lenses in his cowl making it easy to see in the darkness, though tonight it was sweat soaked and more confining than usual. Jesus—

Robin was weakly and painfully pulling himself back up to his feet, his shoulder and right arm hanging limply while he used his other hand to pull the stray Batarang free.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Part Six**

Batman was just loading Robin into the Batmobile when the police arrived, five squad cars and a paddy wagon's worth. The art thieves were quickly readied to be transported down to booking while the detectives went through the museum to see what damage was done and what was missing.

"That their van? Okay, let's see what they have in the back, boys."

"Holy Kajolie—this stuff is the real deal. Rembrandts and this one, cripes, this one is an El Greco and that's a Rubens. Millions, these things are worth _millions_. These guys have taste; I gotta give them that. Good job Batman, you make our jobs easier and that's a fact."

His partner jabbed an elbow into his side. "Johnny, you know art?"

"'Minored in art history, yeah. Great stuff…you ever go to museums Billy?"

The security lights mounted on the building gave enough light for the police to see the blood on the pavement. "We know who owns this?"

Batman was just getting into the Batmobiles's driver's seat. "Robin's been injured, I'm taking him to get help."

"Robin—crap, it serious? Jimmy, give them an escort, lights and use the siren if you have to. Where you going, Wayne General?"

Batman was stuck, he was going to take the boy straight home and have Leslie come to the house but he couldn't now. Dammit. "Yes, Wayne."

"Jimmy, call it in, let them know you're on the way."

"You got it, Lieutenant."

The press monitored police transmissions, just standard practice, so when they got to the ER three TV units and at least half a dozen reporters for everything from the Gotham Times to TMZ met them. There was no way to keep this quiet. None. And if Robin was injured then they needed a cover story for Dick Grayson.

Minutes later at the hospital Robin was placed, semi-conscious, onto a gurney and wheeled inside, flashbulbs firing along with camera phones, news cameras…this was going out live.

What a mess.

He used the secure line to call Alfred. "Robin has been injured, we're enroute to Wayne General. I need you to start one of the backup plans; it looked like he'll be out of commission for at least a couple of weeks and so that means that both the Titans and is school will have to be addressed." It also meant that the household staff would need some kind of reason why the young master wasn't around and they needed to decide which cover would be the best choice this time around.

Alfred would know what to do, he always did.

And Tom; he could be a problem with his current obsession but that could be dealt with later, right now the concern was Robin; how badly was he hurt, was it life or career threatening?

They hospital was ready for them when they got to the ER, an examining area was ready and blocked off from any outside eyes or cameras and an OR had been reserved just in case it would be needed. The head of Emergency Services happened to be on call that night and took charge of the case. The kid was prepped for the initial exam, his clothes cut off. Oxygen and an IV started with the basic saline solution. Radiology took several initial films which showed that his left clavicle and the three top ribs were chipped or fractured by the Batarang, skin and muscles were both severely sliced, there were cut veins and an artery might be damaged as well as several tendons and ligaments. He'd also suffered blood loss and was both unconscious and in deep shock.

It was serious.

Dick Grayson was in school the next day, his homework was finished and, to anyone who cared enough to notice, he was the picture of health. He was also there every day for the rest of the week, ready to work and acting like his normal self. He ate lunch with his usual group of friends, won two games at chess club on Thursday and impressed the teacher with his insight into the psychology in Shakespeare's Tempest.

Tom opened the gates for him every morning and afternoon, the boy even threw him a wave as he passed by and once stopped for a moment to ask how Traver was doing with his math.

Whatever was going on up at the big house, evidently Tom never made the connection between Dick Grayson and Robin. So far that was about the best that could be said for the situation.

The doctors decided quickly that Robin needed immediate surgery to repair the damage to his arm, shoulder and upper chest. He came through the operation well but the long-term effects wouldn't be known for at least several months. Batman asked that the best possible physical therapists be brought in and asked questions about when they could start working with Robin.

"You have to understand how important it is for him to be able to perform at the level that he's used to."

"I understand that, sir, but we simply can't make any guarantees. With damage this extensive we can only do our best. He's young, strong and tremendously motivated so he'll make quite a good deal of progress but the human body has limits beyond which it simply can't recover."

He's only fifteen years old."

"I know that and you know that we'll do everything possible, as will he I've no doubt. He's quite—strong willed."

"Yes…"

***

A week after Robin was very publicly admitted to the hospital, accompanied by 'breaking news' flashes with hourly updates on virtually ever television channel, Twitter and every celebrity/superhero blog he was released to an undisclosed and secure rehab facility under a news blackout for his own safety.

The hundreds of flower arrangements, thousands of get well cards and endless presents were destroyed, forwarded to a fan answering service or distributed to other patients who might enjoy them.

The day before Tom opened the main gate for the Bentley, which stopped as it pulled even with him. The passenger window opened and Dick called to him, 'I'm going to visit my grandfather for a few weeks, tell Trav that he'll do fine on the Trig final and not to worry about it."

"I'll do that, have yourself a good time and take care of yourself—is Mr. Wayne going?"

"'Has to work, maybe next time."

Tom nodded and waved them through, closing the gate as the car turned onto the road. Well, good—at least he'd be out of harms way for a while.

Poor kid.

***

Alfred drove directly to an underground parking garage, using the concealed entrance and let his passenger out as asked. "Master Bruce wants to express his thanks for your great help the past week, Mr. J'onzz. You've been more than kind."

"I'm pleased to be able to help and please be sure to tell Dick that I'll be stopping in to see him as soon as get caught up. He's a good kid."

"Indeed he is. I add my own thanks, sir. Should I ever be able to assist you in any way, you're not to hesitate to simply ask."

"I'll remember that. Get back safely."

***

"I'm just relieved that Wayne sent Dick out of the country for a while, that's all. He can't get his hands on him for a change."

"Tom, I know that your concern is for the young man, but you don't have any proof…"

"I know what I know, Reverend Jack. Wayne shouldn't be walking around in decent society and that poor kid is the one taking the brunt. If Wayne were you or me he'd be locked up but when you can buy and sell your way through life—it's what it is. 'The way it's always been, the way it always will be."

"Tom…"

"I know and I don't even care about Wayne—it's Dick; he's the one I wish I could help. Wayne has to live with himself but Dick—he's got to deal with it."

"I really think that you're letting this obsession get a little out of hand, Tom—Wayne is a high profile man, if there were any serious questions beyond simple gossip I'm sure that he'd have had to answer for it by now."

"It's money, Jack. It all comes down to money, the haves and the have-nots. Nothing changes."

"I'm saying this as a friend; if you don't have any proof, with all the looking you've been doing all this time, it's time to let this go for your own good—for Traver's good. Back off a bit and see what happens."

"It's not that easy, Jack. I can't just abandon that boy. I don't have it in me."

***

Six weeks later Dick was home from his family visit and Tom saw the new car he was given for his sixteenth birthday and knew what happened. The kid had been bought off. Money, that's what everything always came down to. It was the way of the world.

He'd hoped that things would be different this time around; Dick was a little older, he'd been away and should have gotten a fresh perspective but it looked like it was business as usual at the Manor.

Nothing had changed.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

**Part Seven**

**Conclusion**

Things were back to status quo at the big house. There was the usual round of charity dinners, private parties and the inevitable revolving door of starlets and models with the occasional socialite passing through the master's suite.

Tom was used to that, everyone who'd ever read one of the tabloids or People were used to that. It would almost be a disappointment if something of substance came out of the man's mouth or brain.

"It's beyond me how he keeps going. Seriously, how does he keep from bankrupting himself the way he lives? I know he's obscenely rich but Jesus—new cars, new houses and every damn woman he screws ends up with a diamond necklace or a new Porsche."

"Dad, get over it—he's rich, okay? Deal with it. He pays you pretty well, doesn't he? 'You want him to cut some corners maybe? Besides, he's pretty decent if you'd ever take the time to talk to him."

"Wayne doesn't talk to the hired help."

Trav rolled his eyes. "Give him a chance, will you? He's not that bad."

"He's an idiot."

"A rich idiot who's s decent guy if you let him be."

"I don't think Dick would agree with you. Have you ever had a real conversation with him? The crap he puts up with and for years now—I still don't see how he gets away with it. 'Bought off the damn cops, but how the hell he keeps everything out of the papers is still…It's obscene."

"God, Dad, give it a rest."

Tom kept up watching the kid, watching Dick when he thought no one would notice. He watched him coming and going, watched him when he was taking a walk or when his friends were over. He tried to watch when he was in the private gym working out but that ended when Alfred put curtains up on the windows.

A month passed, then another. Aside from the expected social obligations, the estate was quiet since Dick left to visit some of his parents' friends in late July. It was something about him filling in at the circus they used to work for; he'd be helping out some trapeze troupe that was short performer and tour parts the US while he was at it. He'd even overheard him telling the master on the balcony a few weeks ago when they were out there eating lunch with old Bruce's date du jour.

"It's the swing through the South so it'll be hot but still—the even said they'd be willing to let me try the quad again. This is going to be incredible!"

"Are you sure you can still turn that every night? It just seems so dangerous, especially after what you've been through the last month and a half."

"C'mon, Bruce, I've been flying since I was three and Mario is great with timing; it'll be cake."

"I'm finding it hard to believe that you're in shape for this, are you at least going to use a net?"

A sound of disgust. "Yes, they're insisting, something about the insurance rates going up again or something—it'll be okay, though, I can still have some fun with it."

"'Don't have _too_ much fun. I'd like you back in one piece—are you _sure_ your shoulder is healed?"

"It's fine, stop worrying. Besides, if it's a problem I'll just adjust the routine; not a problem."

"My goodness, Dick—I get chills just thinking about doing something like that and in front of a big crowd like that. Do you have to help put up the tents or do they make all the elephants do that sort of thing?" Mimsy might be the dumbest one he'd ever let stay over and who in their right minds named their daughter Mimsy?

"…Circuses mainly play arenas now, 'not too much call for tents anymore."

"Really?"

Jesus, where did old Bruce _find_ them?

Bruce and Dick had argued about his touring with Ringling Brothers over the last couple of weeks; Bruce insisting that the injury he'd suffered from the batarang was simply too severe for him to be straining it until the wound was fully healed and that he needed more time. Dick insisted that the month and more he'd spent in rehab was more then enough and he was fine, he was a professional, he knew when his body was at it's limit and could change to easier moves if he reached that point.

It had ended with him leaving for the circus over Bruce's objections

***

The summer passed more slowly after Dick left. Evidently he called in every week or so but no one thought to pass anything along to Tom and so, as far as he knew, the kid was doing just fine, In fact he was probably thriving away from 'things' at the Manor, poor kid.

On the other hand, Bruce did seem to date more that summer—probably working out his frustrations. More than once Tom saw things the papers would have paid big money for but he never called or sent any pictures. He wasn't out to trip up the Master for being red-blooded. He just wanted him to lay off the boy.

It wasn't complicated.

***

"Dick—good to see you're back, the job go all right?"

"It was great, Tom. It was terrific, in fact; I got to tour again and we went back to a lot of the places we played when I was still with my parents. 'They even still have a lot of the same performers so it was like going home—and then when we got to New York we were in the Garden…"

"The Garden?"

"Madison Square Garden; it's like my favorite place to fly—incredible and the audiences were awesome, standing O's and everything. But, hey, what's been going on around here?"

"You know, same old stuff."

Dick laughed at that, he knew that would involve Bruce entertaining ambassadors, movie stars, leaders in science and the arts for worthy causes (and putting the screws on them to get some major money donated for whatever cause was front and center). He'd, without doubt, played his part by partying with whatever women were currently getting press attention, either before or after being seen with him. He'd be kind and gracious to them and leave them feeling like they had some wonderful stories to tell their friends and grandchildren.

It was always the same and if Dick thought that it was starting to get old he kept the thought to himself.

"Trav okay?"

"Yeah, sure, he's good. You're looking at schools this year, right?"

He nodded. "I guess it's time. Hey, I gotta go but it's good to be back, say hi to Trav for me."

***

Things were fine for about a month. Late September and unseasonably hot in the Northeast. Tom was taking some tools back to the garage and cut past the main pool. He heard splashing and glanced over just as Dick was getting out of the water, coming up the ladder. He was by one of the chaises, picking up a towel when Tom saw his shoulder.

Jesus.

The scar, a relatively new one, one that hadn't faded yet, one that was still vivid and easy to see because it looked like he'd been sliced open with a butcher knife. The jagged line bisected his shoulder and upper chest, at least eight inches long and looking like whatever had done the damage had torn his skin, cutting cleaning and then tearing. He could only assume that it was worse than it looked.

"What the hell's that from?"

Startled, Dick instinctively threw the towel over his shoulder and arm. "'Nothing, old injury."

"Dick, c'mon. Who did that to you?"

Exasperated. "No one _did_ this to me, okay? I slipped and managed to do it to myself. Let it go, Tom—seriously, don't even _try_."

"Does Bruce know about this?"

"Of course he does, f'God'sake. He knew almost as soon as it happened and he's the one who got me to the hospital."

"…He was there?"

"Oh for the love of… lay off this bullshit thing you have about him abusing me since I was nine or whatever the hell it is you're fixated on."

"Why didn't anyone know about that—it's serious, how come no one knew about it?"

Dick was clearly close to the end of his patience. "Why would I advertise it? Look, Tom, you've been working here a long time and everyone likes you but you're _not_ part of this family, you're an employee here and I think you're losing sight of that. This didn't concern you and it doesn't concern you now." He shook his head and walked off, refusing to stop, refusing to explain and refusing to discuss anything else.

Tom was still standing there deciding what to do when Bruce, the Master himself, came around the path, angry as all hell.

"Tom! What did you say to Dick that got him so upset?"

"Nothing, nothing, I swear. I just asked him where he got that big scar on his shoulder and he practically went for my throat."

"He seems to think you implied that I had something to do with him being injured. Did you say anything suggesting that?"

"No, I swear I didn't, he just jumped the gun and went off on me."

Wayne went calm, appraising, making a decision. Tom waited for him to say whatever was about to drop. "All things considered I think it would be better if, perhaps, you were reassigned to one of the other properties; effective immediately. In fact you have your pick, let me know where you want to go and be ready to leave by Monday, I'll have your belongings shipped."

***

Jesus, what a kick in the ass. I try to help the kid, worry about him, do everything I can think of to get him out that freak show he's living in and this is what I get.

Frigging rich jackass—doesn't care what happens to me or my son now, does he? 'Snaps his fingers and **~poof~** I'm gone.

Reverend Jack thinks I should write down things I saw, the stuff that's suspicious. There's a lot I haven't put down on this list because things happened before I started making a note of the kid's injuries. I know no one cares about Dick but all I wanted was to try to help him, he's a good kid. He deserves better than what he's been handed.

I know he's an athletic kid and active but the list below, that's just the tip of the iceberg. I think that there may have been some serious injuries that were hidden and lied about, things that covered up.

I don't know how Wayne sleeps at night.

_November 23__rd__—D in car accident, cut at hairline needing stitches. _

_December 26__th__—D twisted knee skiing strained ligament._

_January 3__rd__—D sprained wrist skiing._

_February 10__th__—Bruises on D's arm. No explanation._

_February 18__th__—Split lip. No explanation._

_March 13__th__—Sprained ankle. D said he tripped on an uneven piece of sidewalk._

_March 24__th__—Too tired to go to school. Stayed home three days._

_April 17__th__—Bruises on D's neck. No explanation._

_May 19__th__—Stitches in left knee. D said he skidded his bike on gravel._

_June 4__th__—Black eye. D said he walked into a door._

_June 9__th__—Stayed home all week. Pennyworth said he had the flu._

_June 15__th__—Wrist in cast. D said he tried working out too soon after last injury._

_June 20__th__—arm in a sling. D said he hurt it working out._

_Late June through Labor Day—D away visiting relatives and then touring with a circus._

_September 25__th__—Major scar on shoulder/chest. D says it was his own fault._

I'm keeping track. I'm not there at the big house anymore, but I read the papers and I talk to the others who work there, the maids, the gardeners—I hear things. I'm writing it all down and I'm getting pictures when I can.

I know Dick isn't a minor any more and he's out of the house at college but I don't care. If Wayne could get away with this with one kid, who knows how many others he has waiting in the wings.

It's too late for Dick, but now I'm doing this for the others.

Just because he's filthy rich doesn't mean he can get away with everything.

It doesn't.

7/20/09

50


End file.
